r/DnDHomebrewAndArt

Changeling Rogue

My first attempt at D&D infographics. I'm not as familiar with the lore and stats as I once was, so there might be some inaccuracies. Pictures 3 & 4, were made with images I generated when the Missus asked for a Half-Orc Barbarian. I sort of ran with it and started developing a full narrative picture series surrounding Zaelen, a Half-Elf Ranger and Velka, a Half-Orc Barbarian.

In order: Sol (God of Rainbows and Stars), Nyxara (DemiGoddess of Night Animals), Apophis (God of Beasts and creator/father of Nyxara), Parcival (God of Knighthood), Anak (False God of Light)

From the mind of a madman, that craves truth and appreciates honesty, I present to you the D20 of Consequence.

The Missus asked me to do a rendition of our D&D characters on a date night. I think they came out alright. Mine is the Half-Elf Ranger and hers is the Half-Orc Barbarian.

The village fades behind them, but it does not leave them untouched.

They walk until the noise, the stares, the weight of it all begins to thin—until the forest takes them back in and the world feels quieter again. The path gives way to a small clearing, open enough for light to fall cleanly across the ground. It’s here they stop, not because they’ve reached anything, but because something in them needs to settle.

Velka moves first.

She kneels beside their pack with practiced ease, her movements deliberate, familiar. From within, she retrieves a small leather pouch and a pipe—simple things, worn from use but cared for. There’s no ceremony in what she does, but there is intention. She opens the pouch and carefully packs a portion of dwarf moss into the bowl, her hands steady, precise. When she’s finished, she offers it to him.

Zaelen takes it without hesitation.

It’s a habit he doesn’t indulge often, but one he trusts. Something to quiet the noise, to steady the edges of thoughts that don’t always settle on their own. He lifts the pipe, then with a small, controlled motion, snaps his fingers. A flame blooms between his thumb and forefinger—brief, contained, obedient. He brings it to the moss, coaxing it to life.

The first draw is slow.

The second, easier.

By the time the smoke begins to drift in soft, curling threads through the clearing, the tension in his shoulders has already begun to loosen. The anger that had followed him out of the tavern—the sharp, immediate urge to act—starts to dull into something more manageable. Not gone, but quieter.

Velka watches him for a moment.

Then she steps behind him.

Her hands settle on his shoulders without hesitation—firm, grounded, familiar in a way that suggests this isn’t the first time she’s steadied him like this. She begins to work the tension out slowly, deliberately. Not forceful. Not rushed. Just enough pressure to remind his body how to let go.

“You were going to hit him.”

Her voice isn’t accusatory. Just matter-of-fact.

Zaelen exhales, the smoke leaving him in a steady stream. “He had it coming.”

“Maybe.” Her hands shift, easing a knot at the base of his neck. “But it wouldn’t have changed anything.”

There’s a pause.

The forest fills it.

He doesn’t argue.

Because he knows she’s right.

She continues, quieter now. “I appreciate that you would stand up for me.”

That gives him pause.

He glances slightly to the side, not enough to meet her eyes, but enough to acknowledge the words. “You shouldn’t have to deal with that.”

Her hands slow for just a moment before continuing. “I’ve been dealing with it my whole life.”

Another silence settles in, heavier this time.

“Yeah,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Me too.”

There’s nothing more to say to that.

Not here. Not now.

The pipe burns low.

The last of the tension leaves him with the final exhale, and when it’s done, he lowers it, letting the moment end naturally. Velka’s hands fall away as he shifts, rising to his feet. The weight of the world hasn’t disappeared—but it no longer sits as heavily on his shoulders.

He moves with purpose again.

He returns the pipe to the pack, securing it with the same care she showed when retrieving it. There’s no rush in it, but there is finality. This moment—this pause—has served its purpose.

He turns back to her.

For a brief second, everything softens again.

He reaches for her hand, taking it in his, his grip firm but not possessive. There’s a small smile there—quiet, genuine, meant only for her.

“We should keep moving.”

She doesn’t resist.

She never does.

Instead, she steps in closer, lifting her hands to his face, holding him there just long enough to make sure he’s truly present again.

“We knew this would happen,” she says gently. “When we chose this.”

“I know.” His voice is steadier now. “I just…”

He trails off, but he doesn’t need to finish it.

“I know,” she repeats.

Then, softer—“You deserve better.”

That earns the smallest breath of a laugh from him. Not amused. Just… honest.

“So do you.”

Her thumbs brush lightly along his jaw as she studies him, unwavering. “Maybe.”

A beat.

“Until we find it… we have each other.”

That’s enough.

It always is.

She lets him go.

Their hands find each other again without thought this time, and together, they turn back toward the path. The clearing remains behind them, quiet and unchanged. The moment passes, but it doesn’t disappear. It settles somewhere deeper—something carried forward rather than left behind.

They move on.

Not lighter.

But steadier.

Together.

After the warmth of the tavern and the intimacy of firelight, the world narrows to something smaller, more personal. Two figures move through the forest not as strangers or even companions of convenience, but as something steadier—something chosen. Their steps fall into rhythm without effort. Conversation comes easily now, laughter breaking through the stillness of the woods, unguarded and real. The distance that once existed between them has dissolved into familiarity.

The Ranger, long accustomed to solitude, finds himself watching her more than the path ahead. There’s a quiet recognition in his gaze—something deeper than attraction. In her strength, her presence, and the way she occupies space without apology, he sees something of himself. Not the man he presents to the world, but the one shaped by it. An outcast who learned to walk alone.

The forest responds to their presence with subtle life. Light filters through the canopy in shifting patterns, catching on leather, hair, and steel. It’s in this space—between motion and stillness—that the third presence returns.

A dark shape cuts through the light above.

The raven.

It descends without hesitation, not toward the Ranger who raised it, but toward her. It lands cleanly on her bracer, wings folding with practiced ease. She accepts it without surprise, her posture steady, as if this has already become familiar. The Ranger watches, a smile forming, followed by a quiet shake of his head. There is no jealousy in the moment—only understanding.

He had raised the bird from a chick, taught it to trust, to watch, to return.

And still, it chose her.

He understands why.

There is something in her presence—something grounded, unyielding, alive in a way that draws loyalty rather than demands it. The same thing that drew him in.

The raven shifts slightly, then releases its offering—a small cluster of berries—into her open hand. The gesture is simple, almost mundane, yet it carries weight. A quiet acknowledgment. A bond forming not just between two people, but among all three.

She studies the berries with a faint, amused expression, something softer beneath it. The Ranger doesn’t look at the fruit—he watches her. In that moment, the forest falls away again. Not with intensity, not with urgency, but with something steadier. Recognition.

Then, as naturally as it arrived, the moment passes.

They move forward.

The path begins to open, the density of the trees thinning as light grows stronger. The raven lifts off once more, now flying ahead rather than circling back. It does not leave—it leads.

And then they see it.

Beyond the last stretch of forest, through the breaks in the trees, the shape of a village emerges. Rooftops catching the morning light. Smoke rising in thin, steady lines. A place of work, of coin, of obligation. A return to the world beyond the quiet they’ve shared.

They slow, not out of hesitation, but awareness.

This moment—the forest, the laughter, the closeness—belongs to what came before.

What lies ahead will test it.

But they do not step apart.

They move forward together.

If you want them ask for the link, I don't really wanna post them all rn

This is my OC Gimble Zagnut. They are a little alien, and they and their friends go on lots of adventures. At times, they have a backstory with a unique home-world and a story of becoming trapped on Earth; at other times, their world is just a copy of Earth.

Whether they are playing an Earth TTRPG or their own equivalent, either a pastiche of ours or their own design, it seems like the kind of thing they would enjoy. So I experimented with variations on how they might approach such a game.

Each has a specialty neurotype. Gimble's is emotion, introspection, and intrapersonality. This led me to assume they'd play a support class, a healer. Cleric made the most sense. AI seemed to agree when it suggested ideas for all of them.

Their original game was called Jungles and Jabberwocks, and Gimble played a Human Life Cleric named Alaric Thorn. But I gave AI (I forget which model) a challenge: pull from any fantasy RPG setting, tabletop or computer. Mix and match settings and systems. If I'm creating my own system, go nuts. This is its suggestions for Gimble, based on a more detailed character description I gave it.

>Plays an Empath-Cleric — not a war priest but a confessor and grief-worker. Heals through understanding what specifically hurts rather than generic restoration spells. Worships a deity of memory and feeling rather than light or justice. Probably draws from Numenera's "feels" system and Ironsworn's bonds mechanic more than D&D hit points. Their character has no offensive spells at all — a choice that makes other players uncomfortable in exactly the way Gimble finds interesting. Carries a journal that is also a spellbook. The character's "damage" is crying in a way that makes enemies reconsider.

>Plays a Tiefling, but not for the edginess — for the experience of being visibly marked as other and having to develop extraordinary emotional intelligence as a survival skill. The tiefling’s inherited stigma maps directly onto Gimble’s interest in shame, identity, and the gap between inner life and outward perception. Might alternatively play an Empath from Numenera — a human variant whose mutation is feeling others’ pain literally.

If anyone finds this interesting, I can certainly share more ideas from the other 15 members of their group! Got a handful of druids/rangers/witches, and expanding on the others might be fun, too!

Will he find friend or foe?

Heather Malcaster and her children.